Prescited
by Cloudeme
Summary: We adapt to our situations as best we can... some of us better than others. When the mirror shattered, the pieces were all he had left.  Hints of Itachi/Sakura, I suppose.


He had orchestrated this symphony of broken glass and discarded memories, but even so, as he surveyed his handiwork, somewhere within the tangled mess of emotion he ignored, he felt something distinctly... out of place.

It was unusual, to say the least, and positively jarring to be honest. Which he rarely was.

It was a matter of dedication, really, to have lied as much as he had. In word or deed, each lie was part of the detailed illusion he'd cast about the world. It was so easy. He'd done it for years. He even believed it himself, sometimes.

That was the terrifying thing.

When the Brother had so foolishly (_bravely_) charged at him with his pathetic (_resolute_) cries of vengeance, the Protector had merely stood still with wide obsidian eyes. Ah, yes, but the _Persona... _he had done his job. Broken bone and did terrible, irreparable damage to the Brother. He had thought well of himself, and the Persona had put him into his place. The weak, the foolish. The young, so young...

No younger than you, said Persona. Old enough to know the harsh truth that he is not yet enough.

The Protector, though, argued - too damaged now. He will not be saved, even through his own power.

The other that was his reason simply smiled, and so he too smiled. (_Kisame looked on and chose not to comment. His partner was strange, he knew._) Damaged, yes, but the to-be-Hokage, Tsunade... She would fix him.

She had better, or else there would be more planning to do.

He would say he was tired of planning, but that would be a lie (_not that he wasn't terribly good at that)_. He simply did not care. It was his way of thinking. Already new plans were being born, argued out between the two sides of himself; hammered into being between the water and fire. Forged into the steel of his mind and heart. There was no room for weakness in his layers of armor. There was never any room for weakness, anywhere.

* * *

He'd watched as the Brother was confronted.

The Schemer of many masks had simply given him one-eyed looks as the Elder Brother had slipped out of the Akatsuki's base, knowing where he was going, and making no judgement. Hah. It didn't take a genius to know of the Schemer's interests, which he was, and did.

Either way, here he was. Here he watched, as always.

He wasn't too happy about what he was seeing.

It was his fault, true, but that hardly excused the Brother's foolishness (_desperation_), leaving a comrade as he had. Even one as ridiculously packaged as this one was, in pink hair and red qipao.

She didn't put up much a fight (_at all_) and the Brother left her on the bench. Then he left.

The Elder Brother waited a moment, conflicted. This entire thing was ridiculous. He'd know it would happen, why did it matter? He'd known... but he had not considered the Rosy-Haired One. She really didn't catch much attention, despite her appearance. It was the attitude. It didn't match that of a kunoichi. Then again, she was young, and the child of civilians (_once ninja long ago, no longer_), and hadn't been desensitized to living as Uchihas tended to be. She'd wanted so much more, and yet, so much less, than the Brother.

She'd never have it, he knew in that instance. Because of him. He'd broken the Younger of love. He hadn't done it on purpose (_oh, yes, you did_) but it had happened. He'd ended his capacity for normal emotion quite efficiently.

Looking down at pink hair and soft skin, the Elder noted that it was strange to go to such lengths for a person this girl could not possibly understand. It seemed... incongruent. Misplaced might have been a better word. Definitely misplaced.

He reached down a hand and juxtaposed his pale flesh with her own healthy, blushed cheek. Even in her distress she'd been compelling. She hadn't known...

He slid a finger beneath a lock of hair and separated it from its compatriots, admiring the unusual coloration in the snowy lamplight. Snowy like a broken television. The image replayed in crimson-swirling eyes until it was burned into his memory.

He jerked back.

It had been long enough.

He turned back to the shadows, leaving the Rose Girl in the cold light of the street.

* * *

Blue fire burnt hotter than red, he'd heard, so hot it felt cold. The Blonde Fox proved that point, his ocean-eyes so intent upon the Elder. He wasn't sure it would work, since the Persona was so intent upon performing his role to the fullest, but obsidian coals won out in the end, leaving embers in his wake.

The plan was complete. The pieces of the entire piece were laid, the last notes settling into their places.

The Blonde Fox would do his part, and, the Protector realized, would have done so even without the Elder's words. He cared for the Younger. Like the Rosy Girl (_woman, now, the Persona reminded_) had, and still did. Clever minx had paved her own way into the plan, but her role was far more tenuous. The Younger was unable to appreciate. Even with his stand-ins he refused to admit what he lacked.

It was an intriguing idea in itself, that these two unknowns had been provided for his purpose and fit in so perfectly. The primaries - Red, Yellow, Blue. It was providence, but more than that, it was utterly suspicious. The order within chaos was infinitely coherent to him now.

Not that it really mattered at the moment.

His masterpiece was yet undone. The final strokes waited his brush.

It was time to get his hands dirty, and paint the canvas red.


End file.
